Swan Peak (Dave Robicheaux 17)

“Who are you?” one of the deputies asked.

“Dave Robicheaux,” I said. I already had my badge holder in my hand. I opened and closed it before he could take a good look at it. “What’d y’all come up with?”

He held up a bone-colored mask inside a large Ziploc bag. The mask was made of plastic and was shiny and ribbed with streaks of blue when the light struck its angular surfaces. “I think we may have our guy,” the deputy said.

“Which guy?” I said.

“The one who’s been killing people around here. You’re not working with Joe Bim?” the deputy said.

“I have. I’m here to help in any way I can,” I said.

“You were conducting the search without gloves, you idiot,” Alicia Rosecrans said to the deputy. “You didn’t try to obtain a telephone warrant, either. You may have already queered the evidence.”

The deputy had a brush mustache and salt-and-pepper hair. He shook his head and looked at me. “You know her?” he asked.

“Do you want to say something to me?” Alicia Rosecrans asked.

“No ma’am,” the deputy replied. He laughed to himself and looked at his partner.

“Then you’d better change your fucking attitude,” she said.

“What else did you guys find?” I asked.

“A transfer of ownership in the glove box. It looks like this guy just bought his truck from somebody named Leslie Wellstone.”

“Where was the mask?” I asked.

“Under the backseat, wrapped in an old shirt.”

“I don’t want to break in on all you swinging dicks here, but none of you are to put your hands on that truck,” Alicia Rosecrans said. “We have jurisdiction on this investigation, and as of this moment you’re out of it. In about five minutes, three people who talk like me are going to be kicking a telephone pole up your ass.”

“Yes ma’am. Whatever you say. We got it. We’re here to please. So sayonara or hasta la vista, whichever you prefer,” the deputy said, bowing slightly, his hands pressed together in prayerful fashion. “When you’re at the Asian Garden restaurant, you and your fellow agents have a big plate of shiitake on us.”

“What did you say? What did you say?” she asked.

Both deputies walked off without replying, glancing absently at the smoke that was beginning to veil the stars, and I was left alone with Special Agent Alicia Rosecrans. Her small wire-framed glasses were full of light.

“You like sexist and racist humor, Mr. Robicheaux?”

“They were out of line, but they’re not bad guys. The feds talk down to them. So they get defensive.”

“How grand and kind. I wish I had that level of humanity. It must bring you great comfort.”

Don’t take the bait, I told myself. “You had Whitley under surveillance?”

She paused as though deciding whether I was worth continuing a conversation with. “We got a report off the police band. I was a few blocks away.”

I didn’t believe her, but I let it go. “You think Whitley is the guy who tried to burn Clete?”

“Maybe. What has Clete Purcel told you?”

The fact that she didn’t refer to Clete in the familiar wasn’t insignificant. “You haven’t talked with him?” I asked.

“Someone else will be doing that.” She was looking toward the cruiser where Troyce Nix and Candace Sweeney were sitting, her eyes not meeting mine.

&

nbsp; “Clete’s personal relationships have nothing to do with what happened here tonight,” I said. “Clete hasn’t done anything wrong. I don’t think you have, either.”